


The Proposal

by GreenQueenofClubs



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: AU, AU-modern setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Arranged Marriage, Clint Needs a Hug, F/M, M/M, Phil is a dick, Proposal!AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-15
Updated: 2013-04-15
Packaged: 2017-12-08 14:37:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/762484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenQueenofClubs/pseuds/GreenQueenofClubs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton had been working for SHIELD Publishing for three years when his boss popped the big question, as extradition threatened. </p><p>All would have been fun, games and frauds if Clint hadn't happened to be in love with Phil Coulson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Proposal

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is loosely based on The Proposal. I purposely didn’t rewatch before writing this piece, and therefore I am working on two years old memories. Otherwise, please enjoy.

Clint swore as he raced down the street toward the small coffee shop, checking his watch for what seemed the three hundredth time. Of course the morning his alarm clock didn't ring would be the same one his toaster burnt his bread and his elevator refused to function.

 

Of course, because the universe loved to fuck with him.

 

As soon as he barged into the small shop, he heard someone shout his name. He looked up, smiling, impossibly relieved, at Darcy as he weaved closer. She beamed back, handing him two tall coffees over the counter. Clint managed to stop himself from hugging her, but just barely and mostly because of the long line of soon customers grumbling behind him.

 

"You're saving my life, Darce."

 

She smiled at him, deftly catching the ten dollar bill he threw at her.

 

"Don't you forget it!"

 

She had to shout the last part as he ran back out, before she could even think about giving back his change. His office was just across the street, and thanks to the barista, maybe he would actually get there on time.

 

He slalomed between cars, pedestrian and bicycles at full speed, miraculously not spilling any of the coffee. He was about to slid in his tower when a tall blond man kicked the door open, arms full with boxes.

 

Clint managed not to scald the stranger or himself, but couldn't quite catch the second coffee, his boss' one, before it crashed down on the pavement. He stared at it for a full second; already mourning the caffeine intake he wouldn't have before shaking himself.

 

The blond man was apologizing profusely, but Clint waved him off, smiling as well as he could. He did his best, and probably failed, at not looking like a complete asshole, and he walked determinedly into the building.

 

He pushed himself in the elevator, already mostly full of people who decided to cut it a little close. When he got to his floor, he jogged up to the conference room, only pausing to straighten his tie before walking in. He hoped he looked put together and composed, but at the moment, the only thing he cared about was that the clock indicated that he precisely wasn't late.

 

It didn't keep anyone from staring at him, but they hadn't anything to tell him off for. He slid next to his boss, handing the man the last cup of coffee.

 

Mister Coulson turned and stared at him for a long time, blue eyes piercing through Clint, full of reprobation. The employee turned his head just in time not to glare at his boss, hands clenching in his lap.

 

Coulson huffed, annoyed, but let it go in favor of listening to Fury open the meeting.

 

Clint spent the next hour or so being the perfect little glorified secretary he hadn't been hired to be. He took notes, recalled numbers and figures when people needed him to, and smiled approvingly the rest of the time.

 

It made him seethe and glower when he was back at home, but there was no one to know but himself.

 

After an eternity, Hill and Fury left, leaving him alone with Coulson. Clint followed his boss dutifully back to the office they shared. The employee dropped his bag on the small desk Coulson had named as his, carding his fingers through his short blond hair before turning toward his boss'.

 

Coulson was already looking at something on his computer screen, and only deigned turning to face Clint when the smaller man seated himself.

 

"Who is Darcy and why should I call her?"

 

Clint nearly choked on his saliva, his eyebrows jumping to his hairline.

 

"Pardon me?"

 

Coulson smiled blandly at him, and precisely deposited the now empty coffee cup on the desk, deliberately turning it until the cheerful inscription on it was visible.

 

_Call me! Darcy._

There was no number, but it was useless. Clint had had Darcy's number for years now. He pursed his lips, rubbing the back of his neck with his left hand.

 

"It's for me, sir. It was my cup."

 

Coulson arched an eyebrow.

 

"Was it? You happen to drink hazelnut and cinnamon lattes too?"

 

Clint violently repressed the flush threatening to flame his cheeks and looked straight into Coulson's eyes, forcing a dry smirk on his mouth.

 

"Of course, sir. It makes me feel like a man."

 

The older man's lips thinned in disapproval, and Clint felt his heart sink a bit further. In the three years he had been working here, his boss had never expressed anything but frustration toward him. Never the patience he expressed toward the new writers the firm decided to publish. Never the kindness he showed toward the receptionists downstairs, or the jokes he shared with Sitwell, the printer, or the banter he needled Fury, the owner of the company above them, with.

 

Never anything but exasperation, and no matter what Clint did, he never managed to change that.

 

Of course he was desperately in love with the man, because Clint was an idiot and a glutton for punishment and he would always fall for people so out of his league is was ridiculous.

 

Coulson pinned him down with a stare, and chose not to rise to the bait.

 

"I've read the manuscript you recommended."

 

Clint did not perk like an overeager puppy, he absolutely didn't. He couldn't help, though, but lean a little more forward, eyes sharp and attentive. He couldn't help it, because the manuscript was one he wrote himself. Not that Coulson knew, of course not, Clint knew there was no way he'd get published if so, but he wanted to know what the man thought of what he considered his best text so far.

 

He nodded, prodding Coulson not to leave it there. The man pursed his lips and leaned back in his chair.

 

"No style, no story, no character development, no talent whatsoever. Why you thought it to be worthy of us, I cannot fathom."

 

If Clint's heart had sunk down before, it broke in two this time. Coulson, with his bland smile and even voice had crushed any hope of a literary career he had, and at the same time and chance he could ever impress the older man into giving him a chance.

 

Clint's jaw clenched and he nodded jerkily. Coulson smiled once more.

 

"One more thing, Mister Barton. You are free to date and fuck as many people as you need to _feel like a man,_ but please don't let it affect your work again. You should consider whether flirting with _Darcy_ is worthy of you getting fired."

 

Clint clenched his teeth and deliberately didn't spit in the man's face. He hadn't gone on a freaking date in over a year now, for god's sake. He gritted.

 

"I wasn't late. Sir."

 

Coulson arched and eyebrow at him, jerking his chin toward Clint's desk.

 

"I sent you some text I would like you to revise."

 

Clint nodded once more, turning as he did his best not to hit anything or scream. Not only would he never be published, but he would spend the rest of his life looking over texts Coulson had approved and ask himself what they had he didn't.

 

Why did he ever think he would get anywhere in life? Clint didn't know, couldn't remember.

 

He set to the task, feeling the weight of Coulson's gaze on the back of his neck even while the other man typed at the computer.

 

It didn't matter, nothing mattered anyway.

 

Maybe his brother was right. Maybe the right way to live was to tell everyone to go fuck themselves and smoke weed in a run-down apartment.

 

Maybe there was no point in trying.

 

But he knew himself, he knew he'd keep doing it, keep trying until it killed him.

 

Why couldn't Coulson see he was doing his best?

 

OOOOOO

 

At the end of the day, Clint shrugged his vest back on, feeling it hanging limply on his frame, the fatigue he felt dragging him down. He dialed Darcy's number.

 

"Hey handsome!"

 

Clint smiled a bit, and muttered back.

 

"Hey babe."

 

"How'd you feel?"

 

Clint shrugged, knowing she could hear it in his voice.

 

"Like curling in bed and sleeping for years."

 

She sighed back and Clint braced himself.

 

"He's working you too hard."

 

Clint shook his head.

 

"He's working me just fine."

 

"You need to get laid."

 

Clint sighed and rubbed his eyes.

 

"I don't."

 

"Yes, you do. You also need to stop pining after a man who hasn't given you the time of day for three damn years now Clint. Get over him."

 

"I'm not pining."

 

"Yes, you are. What do you see in the asshole, anyway?"

 

Clint closed his eyes, not knowing how to verbalize it. It was the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled, the quiet laugh he let out when he was truly amused. The way he could dress down an asshole in five minutes flat and could recite Shakespeare’s verse from memories.

 

It was everything he wasn't around Clint.

 

"You wouldn't understand."

 

"No, I really don't."

 

"I'm going to bed."

 

"This conversation isn't over."

 

"It's the fourth time you've said that."

 

"As you can see, we're still having it."

 

"See you tomorrow."

 

"Yeah, idiot."

 

Clint hung up and realized he was back at his flat. For a moment he stood there, staring at the dark door, the rest of the building empty as everyone had been back from work hours ago.

 

Why couldn't he have been straight?

 

OOOOOOO

 

Four days later, Clint found himself using his key to open his office's door for the first since he got it.

 

Coulson always arrived first.

 

Until today apparently, since Clint was obviously alone in the room, settling gingerly in his chair, starting his computer.

 

Thirty minutes later, the door to the office opened again. Clint didn't need to turn to know it was Coulson. No one ever entered Coulson's office without knocking.

 

Clint turned nonetheless, because there had to be a reason for his boss' tardiness. Coulson took a moment to put his bag down before turning toward the younger man.

 

They looked at each other for a long moment before Coulson took a deep bracing breathe. He looked rawer than Clint had ever seen in.

 

"I need to marry you."

 

Clint's brain shut down. Completely. For several minutes he wasn't able to do more than stare at his boss. Coulson simply looked at him, waiting for his head to kick start again.

 

Finally Clint stuttered out.

 

"Wh-what?"

 

Coulson sneered.

 

"My visa will be revoked in a month's time otherwise, and I will be forced to go back to Canada before I can come back. It would be unacceptable."

 

Clint blinked a few more times.

 

"So you would be marrying me?"

 

Phil nodded jerkily.

 

"Marrying an American resident would assure me a visa without extradition."

 

Clint blinked again.

 

"How did you not fill out your visa renewal?"

 

Coulson's jaw clenched.

 

"I filled it. It was lost."

 

Clint blinked a few more times. Coulson sighed, irritated, and prodded.

 

"Will you marry me?"

 

Clint forced himself to swallow, forced himself to think through the sheer wrongness of this. To hear these words, these words he dreamed about, to have everything he wanted offered to him, all because of a fucking visa, it was shredding him in pieces. He forced himself to smirk.

 

"Pretty sure you're supposed to get on your knees for the big question, sir."

 

Coulson's eyes flared for a second before he got a handle on himself again.

 

"Don't play games with me today, Barton."

 

Clint pondered saying no, pondered leaving Coulson to wallow in misery some more, but in the end, he was still stupid naive Clint Barton who was too loyal for his own good.

 

"Sure sir."

 

Coulson seemed taken aback for a moment. He nodded and finally took place at his desk.

 

"Thank you. We'll have to go to Immigration's office tomorrow to make everything official."

 

And with that he turned to his computer and the discussion was apparently done.

 

OOOOOO

 

The interview with the immigration worker had been supremely uncomfortable. Clint cringed when he remembered the woman's face as she questioned them, clearly not buying the sudden illumination that hit them both just in time for Coulson not to get evicted from the country.

 

He did his best not to wince as Coulson failed to answer and patched together half convinced lies on questions as simple as what state Clint was from, or how old he was.

 

The woman didn't even bother to interrogate Clint. Coulson made it obvious he had no idea who his _fiancé_ was, but she did ask the younger man to stay behind. The older man shot him a discreet warning look and exited the room.

 

The woman looked at him steadily.

 

"Mister Barton, what town is Mister Coulson from?"

 

Clint swallowed.

 

"Ottawa, ma'am."

 

She nodded.

 

"How old is he?"

 

Clint pinched his lips.

 

"48."

 

She cocked her head.

 

"Does he have any siblings?"

 

Clint clenched his teeth.

 

"A sister. Younger."

 

For a long moment, she stared at him before sighing.

 

"Mister Barton, emotional blackmail is-"

 

Clint shook his head vehemently.

 

"It's not what's happening ma'am."

 

She looked dubious.

 

"Do you love him?"

 

Clint looked her straight in the eye and stated with all the certainty telling the truth could muster.

 

"I do."

 

She arched an eyebrow.

 

"Does he love you?"

 

Clint gave her his best winning smile.

 

"I surely hope so, since we're going to be married."

 

Finally accepting she wasn't going to get what she wanted from him, she opened a drawer and took out a bunch of files.

 

"I can't accept your request for derogation. You can come back in 14 days for another try. Make sure Mister Coulson does his homework better."

 

Clint ignored the pity he saw in his eyes and took the files, heading out. Coulson was reading something on his phone, and his eyes automatically found Clint when he got out of the room.

 

"So?"

 

Clint pushed the papers in his hands.

 

"Refused. We can come back in two weeks for another try."

 

Coulson stared at him.

 

"Two weeks, but that's just before my visa's expiry date."

 

Clint shrugged as if he couldn't care less.

 

"Well you'll have to get it right that time."

 

Coulson whirled around.

 

"Excuse me for not getting involved in my employees' personal life."

 

Clint smirked.

 

"Having an inkling of the age of the man you shared an office with for three years is not personal life, _boss._ It's common courtesy."

 

Coulson's eyes flashed for a second before composing themselves again.

 

"You'll need to learn about me too."

 

Clint snorted. He had quite a head start on that.

 

"I have some vacation next week. I'm going home."

 

Coulson arched an eyebrow.

 

"Obviously it can't happen."

 

Clint chuckled and shook his head.

 

"Oh yes, it will."

 

Coulson leaned forward, frowning ever so slightly.

 

"We need to stay together."

 

Clint shrugged again.

 

"That's why you're coming with me."

 

He turned and walked out of the building, leaving Coulson floundering behind him. It took a minute for the older man to catch up with him.

 

"Why would I do so? It would make more sense for us both to stay in New York."

 

Clint turned and stared at Coulson.

 

"No it doesn't. Don't you realize you know nothing about me that's not work related? If you hope to ever make a convincing act of being in love with me, you have to get to know about me outside of work."

 

Coulson's face stayed as blank as ever, and Clint wanted nothing more than to slap something, some emotion on it. After an eternity the other man cocked his head.

 

"We could go to my home town."

 

Clint huffed with a wry smirk, trying to hide the pathetic longing for seeing the place Coulson grew up in.

 

"You never go home, you never take vacation. Wherever we would go you wouldn't be at ease. Might as well go somewhere one of us will know."

 

Coulson pondered it for a while longer before nodding tersely and walking past Clint to go back to the office. The younger man sighed and took out his phone to add a second ticket to the one he'd already bought for the week after.

 

OOOOOOO

 

On Saturday early afternoon, when Clint got to the airport, Coulson was already there, as usual impeccably dressed in a dark suit. The younger man sighed, feeling how painful this whole trip would be, for various reasons.

 

Coulson didn't say a word when Clint approached him, not even a good morning. He simply took the boarding pass his employee handed him and stalked off to the check-up. Clint's hands clenched on his suitcase's handle.

 

In the past, he had been used for his body, for his aim, for his relations but it was a brand new thing to be used for his citizenship. He didn't like it any more than he liked any of the others.

 

Being used is never a nice thing.

 

When they were seated in the plane, Clint miraculously managing to get them adjoining seats, Coulson pulled out a pile of paper out of his bag. He cleared his throat and inquired.

 

"What's my birthday?"

 

Clint frowned at him.

 

"July 14th? Why?"

 

Coulson ignored his question, nodding and checking out something off the list.

 

"What's my favorite color?"

 

Clint frowned at bit more, leaning back.

 

"Dark blue. Why are you asking me this?"

 

Coulson rewarded him with a surprised look at his answer but kept on ignoring his question.

 

"What am I allergic to?"

 

Clint's eyebrows flew to his airline, the assistant finally catching up on what was going on.

 

"Jesus Coulson, did you print a "Most asked question at immigration" list from internet?"

 

The twitch at the corner of the right eye of his boss told him he was right, but Coulson still didn't answer. He simply repeated evenly.

 

"What am I allergic to?"

 

Clint pursed his lips.

 

"Pine nuts, and the full spectrum of human emotion."

 

The look Coulson sent him clearly displayed what the other man thought of his humor. Clint sighed and sunk in the cushions, crossing his arms over his chest. Nothing would keep Coulson from doing what he thought was right.

 

Clint was in for a fun three hours.

 

OOOOOOO

 

As they arrived in Tandry, in a cab because Clint insisted he could get himself home safely from the airport, thank you very much, the younger man found himself hoping against hope the house would be empty.

 

Of course it wouldn't be completely empty; Natasha lived there, but still.

 

Obviously, he hoped for nothing, because when he arrived all the lights were lit, something Natasha never did, preferring something softer and cozier, the sound of laughter just barely audible.

 

Coulson was right behind him, and Clint didn't even want to know what he was thinking, for once in his life. The house was small and plain, if well kept, but gardening was never either his forte or Tasha's, and daffodils could be seem popping across the thankfully green lawn.

 

It was nowhere as bad as it had been when Clint bought it, but once inside there would no denying the house was--or had been-- a rat hole, with its uneven floors and patched up ceiling that never managed to look right, no matter how much effort he threw at them.

 

Coulson went to stand next to Clint, unaware that something was wrong, when Clint went to open the door. The employee hesitated for a split second, turning a fraction toward the other man.

 

"If you decided to run for the hill at some point during the evening, I swear it won't break character. Everybody's done it at some point."

 

He opened the door before Coulson could say anything, sliding between his boss and the guests, shielding it as best as he could.

 

Natasha was the only one visible, standing guard. It had been established years prior that no one but Clint and herself would be allowed to answer the door, and despite the complaints, the rule stood. The red head was scary enough to see it applied.

 

Now though, she smiled as wide as she ever did, a brief twitch of lips as she walked to Clint and wrapped him in a crushing hug that expulsed all air from his lungs and comforted him in a way nothing else could.

 

After the precisely calculated five seconds, she let him go and turned to look at Coulson. For a moment, Clint feared she would start questioning him, giving him a hard time, but then she simply smiled sweetly and offered her hand to shake.

 

"Natasha Romanov. You must be Phil."

 

They had agreed that they would have to be on first names basis for this, and Clint had sworn not to call him anything, not to settle a bad precedent in his mind. Coulson automatically took her hand, shaking it amiably.

 

"Phil Coulson. Pleasure to meet you."

 

She smiled again, and Clint was starting to freak out. She wasn't nearly that agreeable usually.

 

"Please come in. People are eager to know the man who finally dragged Clint out of his celibacy."

 

Clint winced at her words, and he couldn't imagine how pathetic they made him sound. He saw Coulson twitch, nothing more than a nervous tic for anyone who didn't know him. Of course, Coulson thought he was a man whore. Nevertheless he nodded.

 

"Thank you, Natasha."

 

With that they went in. Tasha pinned Clint with a brief but piercing 'We're going to have a _discussion_ later' before breezing past him. The young man already knew it would be painful.

 

The entry in the living room was pretty much what Clint expected. If Natasha apparently kept most of the town out of the house, even she wasn't scary enough to keep their die hard core of friends away, especially since Clint told them he would be bringing someone.

 

Tony of course was the first one to jump in their face, offering his hand to Coulson while looking him over several times, smiling in the disturbing and disturbed way that meant he hadn't slept in an unhealthy amount of time.

 

"Hi, nice to meet you. I'm Tony. Aren't you a bit too old for Clint? You look too old."

 

Clint wanted to face palm, and thankfully a hand wrapped around Tony's upper arm, gently tearing the dark haired man out of Coulson's face. Steve smiled awkwardly, passing the smaller man off to Bruce.

 

"I'm sorry about Tony. He forgets how to act with people sometimes."

 

Coulson nodded calmly, and Clint told himself he was perfect justified to carefully watch his face. After all he was supposed to be a concerned _fiancé_ and that implied making sure his best friends didn't drive Coulson mad, right?

 

Steve offered his hand, and Coulson shook it regally. As soon as Steve let the hand go he was pushed to the side by the giant hunk of a man who answered to Thor. Clint cringed in advance, and he wasn't disappointed.

 

"PHIL! Verily, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last! Many times you have been discussed in these halls! Please be assured of my welcome and those of my friends!"

 

Clint sighed and he could see Tony repress laughter. Despite living in the US for years now, he still spoke like a Shakespeare play. They all agreed it was mostly to drive them all crazy, but they got used to it.

 

Until Thor decided to once again forego all proprieties and tell Coulson he talked about him when there was no reason for him to.

 

From the look his boss shot at him, the older man had caught that part too.  Clint couldn't decide if it would be good or bad if Coulson thought he was bitching about him.

 

Thankfully, Bruce, the saint he was, decided to step in before Thor could damage Clint's ego even further, offering his name quietly and a firm handshake.

 

With that, Coulson was introduced, and somehow Clint found no reason at all to relax.

 

Natasha came back to usher everyone to the dining room, where a gorgeous roast beef laid. Clint was still not sure what she was planning, but he was ready to give a bit of leeway since she went through the trouble of cooking them her famous _roast beef._

 

He was also a bit worried but hey. Natasha's interrogatories were more bearable with a full stomach. With a few maneuvers from everyone, Clint found himself seated at the corner of the table, flanked by Coulson, as Tasha took her usual place at head, and everyone settled at the rest.

 

When everyone was served, they settled and Steve opened his mouth. Clint let himself loosen up a bit, smiling contently.

 

"So, Clint, how's the book going?"

 

The blond felt himself freeze, a cold feeling creeping up his neck. He forced himself to smile at Steve. He could see Coulson turn to arch an eyebrow at him. The older man wouldn't comment, it would too suspicious, but Clint could feel his curiosity flare up.

 

"I don't think it's going to happen. It's not really good."

 

Everyone frowned at him, except Coulson who took a sip of wine. Bruce was the one to speak.

 

"You won't know until you try it. You should show it to a publisher."

 

Tony leaned forward.

 

"You work at a publishing house, for fuck sake. Use it."

 

Clint straightened up, glaring at him.

 

"Exactly. I see every day what a good enough for publishing book is, and mine is just not that."

 

Thor brandished his fork at him, a slice of meat wobbling from it.

 

"It is merely but your self-doubts speaking again, my friend."

 

Tony spread his arms.

 

"Exactly. You know what? Show it to me! I'll tell you what's wrong."

 

Clint was feeling bile rise into his mouth and he shook his head vehemently.

 

"You are not touching my script."

 

Natasha decided they were arguing pointlessly, and turned toward Coulson.

 

"What do you think, Phil?"

 

Clint's left hand clenched, in his lap. Apparently Coulson was expecting it, because he answered smoothly.

 

"We talked about it often but you must know how pig headed Clint can be. He refuses to let me read his story."

 

Clint frowned. It wasn't true. He already shown it to Coulson, and the man told him in as many words that it wasn't worth a damn.

 

"It's not up to discussion."

 

Steve looked a bit distressed.

 

"Clint, you moved to New York to get published!"

 

Coulson was staring at him now, and Clint did his best not to blush and stammer.

 

"And now I have a good job in New York. Talking about jobs, Tony, how's the company going?"

 

Never one to skip an opportunity to talk about himself, the dark haired man started rambling about things Clint could barely understand. Everyone else, Tasha in particular, shot him looks that meant he wasn't fooling anybody. He didn't mind if they lay off him for a moment, or even better, had this discussion outside of Coulson's hearing.

 

The last thing he needed was the older man to connect Clint to the hideous text he read a week before.

 

Clint was surprised the only time the discussion came back to him during the meal was Thor inquiring about Darcy. The smaller man lighten up, more than happy to entertain them with the many stories of the Big Apple's meeting with the hurricane that was Darcy.

 

Everyone was crying from laughter when he was done. Even Coulson was chuckling, a glint of mirth in his normally placid eyes. Clint felt a surge of pride, looking away with a small smile.

 

Well after eight, after everyone had tidied up and piled themselves in the living room, Clint once again forced to seat beside Coulson, pressed together as Thor occupied the other end of the couch.

 

Tony leaned forward, his face eager like the gossipy old woman he was.

 

"So, who proposed?"

 

Everyone shook their head, Bruce and Natasha rolling their eyes. Tony defended himself with a large smile.

 

"What? A proposal can tell you a lot about a guy!"

 

Clint cleared his throat.

 

"Phil proposed."

 

He could fell Coulson's irritation, but whatever, it was his fault they were stuck in this. The man smiled serenely.

 

"I proposed at home, after Clint cooked."

 

Thor burst out laughing.

 

"After our friend's dear lasagna I should think! Tis not the first one who did so!"

 

Coulson nodded smoothly.

 

"Exactly."

 

Clint wanted to scream, because he had thought about trying to cook for Coulson, he offered it to the man when he realized the man basically lived of take out. He had been brushed off. It had been the first of many times.

 

Finally, thankfully, everyone left. Natasha shooed Coulson and Clint to the second floor. The younger man was the first one up, and he showed the way to his room. He opened the door to reveal the bed that ate most of the space. He had squeezed a desk on the far side, under the window, and that was it.

 

They stood awkwardly at the foot of the bed for a few moments. Clint cleared his throat.

 

"I have an en suite bathroom through there if you want to clean up."

 

Coulson nodded, but he hesitated about something. Clint picked up on it and grinned drily.

 

"I'm going to get myself a pillow and some covers to sleep on the floor."

 

Coulson protested.

 

"You are the host."

 

Clint shook his head.

 

"Exactly. You are my guest. You sleep on the bed."

 

Coulson frowned.

 

"It's a big bed--"

 

Clint interrupted him, not even able to entertain the idea.

 

"It wouldn't be appropriate. Sir."

 

Before the older man could answer, Clint got out of the room, closing the door behind himself. He stood in the hallway for a moment, until he heard the water start. Then he walked to the linen closet, taking out what he would need.

 

Natasha appeared out of nowhere, as she was wont to do, staring at him.

 

"Tell me you are careful."

 

Clint turned toward her, shrugging.

 

"There is nothing to be careful about."

 

The redhead narrowed her eyes at him.

 

"You're not telling me everything."

 

Clint smirked at her.

 

"Why are you so sure you're right?"

 

She pursed her lips.

 

"I don't want to be. Clint, I don't want to be. I want you to be happy. You know I do."

 

Clint rolled his eyes.

 

"And what, you're 'going to hurt me' if I don't tell you what's wrong?"

 

She sighed and shook her head.

 

"If I'm right, Clint, you're going to hurt yourself more than I could ever."

 

With that she turned around and disappeared in her room. Clint stared after her before shaking himself. He slipped back into his bedroom just as Coulson left the bathroom, in sleep pants and a worn out t-shirt. He looked soft and the younger man wanted to wrap himself around him.

 

Instead he went to shower himself. When he got out, Coulson was sleeping in the bed, or at least pretending to.

 

Clint sighed and went to curl on the floor. He didn't even have time to overthink anything before sleep claimed him too.

 

OOOOOO

 

The next morning he woke up to the sound of pages rustling. When he looked over the mattress he saw Coulson reading a script, taking notes. He rolled his eyes.

 

"You obviously don't catch the meaning of vacation"

 

Coulson didn't answer but he looked at him, eyes looking for something. What, Clint couldn't fathom.

 

"You never told me you wrote."

 

Clint shook his head, carding his fingers through his sleep mussed hair.

 

"Never saw the point. It's not good anyway."

 

Coulson cocked his head.

 

"No writer is ever satisfied with what he writes."

 

Clint smirked bitterly.

 

"I have it on good authority that it's really not good enough."

 

Coulson seemed to debate whether to argue or not. Clint didn't give him the time to choose. He went into the bathroom to clean up.

 

When he was done, he went downstairs, leaving Coulson alone to whatever his routine was.

 

Natasha was in the kitchen, sipping a cup of tea, a half-eaten toast remaining in her plate. Clint simply nodded his welcome at her. She didn't like to talk in the morning.

 

He went on the task to whip up pancakes. After a few moments, Natasha spoke up.

 

"Mother Carla demands your presence today."

 

Clint didn't even turn to look at her.

 

"Is there any chance I have of not going?"

 

Natasha huffed.

 

"None. Bruce and Steve will be coming too."

 

Coulson came in, throwing an interested look at the pan where the batter sizzled, before turning to the red head.

 

"Coming where?"

 

Clint answered for her.

 

"The orphanage."

 

Coulson simply nodded, but as soon as Natasha left the room he turned to Clint. He was frowning.

 

"Why are we going to an orphanage?"

 

Clint almost protested, almost said that Coulson had nothing to do in the orphanage, that it was his own life. However, he changed his mind. A day in the orphanage would probably teach more about who Clint was in a day than anything else in a year.

 

"Because Mother Carla won't accept me coming to town without coming to see her and the kids."

 

Coulson frowned even more.

 

"But why would you--"

 

Clint stared at him as he saw comprehension dawning in Coulson's face. He turned around, throwing some new batter in the pan.

 

"You're an orphan?"

 

Clint nodded briskly.

 

"Me, Natasha, Bruce, Steve. We all met in the orphanage."

 

Coulson stayed silent, and Clint gestured to the house.

 

"Me and Natasha, we were the oldest. We bought this place when we got too old. The nuns supported us and everything. Tony and his dad and Thor and his family too. It took us an eternity to pay for it, and I know it's not that great, but you know. It's ours."

 

He wanted to bang his head against the wall at his verbal diarrhea. Coulson simply stared for a long time before clearing his throat.

 

"It's really nice. The house."

 

Clint smirked at him.

 

"You don't have to say that."

 

He put the pancake plate on the table, gesturing at Coulson to serve himself.

 

OOOOOO

 

Before he knew it, Natasha was parking in the orphanage's parking. Clint barely had time to get out of the car before a kid, who had been playing soccer with a few others ran toward him, bellowing at the top of his lungs.

 

"CLINT!!!!"

 

Clint dropped to his knees, and braced himself for the collision. The boy smacked into him at full force, laughing full out.

 

"Hey there squirt! How are you?"

 

The boy starting babbling, and no one really understood what he was saying, but they didn't really mind. Clint went to his feet, taking the kid with him, settling him on his hips easily. For the first time in days he completely forgot about Coulson.

 

"Clint!"

 

He turned, a small girl tugging at the hand of an older woman beaming at him. The girl looked just like his brother, down to the brown dancing eyes and the missing front teeth.

 

The nun had white hair and a wrinkled face but held herself with pride and strength, eyes warm as she gazed at Clint. The man smiled at them.

 

"Wanda! Mother Carla."

 

The nun released the young girl who plastered herself around Clint's leg. The man laughed and gathered the girl in his arms too. The old woman shook her head.

 

"It is good to see you again, my child."

 

Clint ducked his head.

 

"Same here, mother."

 

She smiled.

 

"Come, the other children will be pleased to see you as well."

 

Clint entered the building, listening to Wanda babble about the pet rabbit they adopted while Pietro slipped remarks whenever he saw fit. Distantly he heard Natasha and Mother Carla talk to Coulson.

 

"He was the one who found out their dad was beating them. He got the asshole sent to jail, and brought them here. They worship him."

 

Clint didn't care. And he kept not caring until half an hour later, when he found himself seated on the floor of one of the play rooms, three kids in his lap and four times as many clustered around him, listening to his state renowned rendition of Robin Hood.

 

When he looked up, he felt his heart tighten. Coulson was on the floor too, and had been claimed by Wanda and Pietro who had decided to give the other kids a chance to sit on Clint.

 

The twins were asleep, curled in Coulson's lap, while the older man carefully petted their heads. Clint looked away just as the older man's head lifted, cursing internally. Why did he fall even more in love with his boss now, as the older man discovered just how much of a cluster fuck his life had been, just how much of a fuck up Clint was? There was no way he would ever consider the smaller man now.

 

They spent the day at the orphanage, the nuns whisking Coulson away when they realised he was Clint's fiancé. The younger man knew they had no problem with the gay thing; they were the one that helped him come to terms with the fact that maybe not being attracted to Natasha at _fucking_ all meant something.

 

Clint knew they were probably doing their own version of a shovel talk, mixed the classical retelling of every embarrassing story about Clint's youth they could recall. It was good, the younger man told himself, he wouldn't have remembered them himself, and it would give them credibility at the immigration.

 

It was good, that everyone got to know Coulson, that everyone seemed to like him, even Nat, and that his boss seemed to like everyone.

 

Everyone but Clint, of course. He was probably regretting asking Clint to fake marry him now. He'd be much better matched with Natasha, or Steve, depending on which side he really leaned toward.

 

The nuns refused to let them leave before eleven in the evening, and when they got home, they prepared to go to bed.

 

Coulson went first again, and when Clint walked in the room, hair still damp from the shower, the older man looked up and cocked his head.

 

"I was wondering, Barton. The script you gave me last week. Who wrote it?"

 

Clint pinched his lips and grunted "A friend." before lying on the floor and turning so that his back was to Coulson.

 

After a minute or two, the other man turned off the night stand light.

 

OOOOOOO

 

The following morning found Clint awaking to an empty bedroom. He frowned, but guessed Phil couldn't have disappeared too far.

 

When he got down, Coulson was drinking his usual cup of coffee, and seemed to be talking amiably with Natasha. Clint considered asking who initiated the discussion, both of them being pretty taciturn in the morning.

 

Anyhow, the younger man decided to not interrupt them. Both had slipped aside their plates, clearly they had already eaten, so he went to fix his own breakfast.

 

He had barely seated himself, Natasha and Coulson discussing Russia, which the older man had apparently visited once, when the door banged open. Tony and Steve came in, the tall blond with his usual chagrined expression when he followed the rich man.

 

The three of them stared at the intruders. Tony finally registered that maybe he came in a bit early.

 

"What are you doing eating?"

 

Natasha glared at him.

 

"It's nine in the morning Stark. It's the normal time to get breakfast."

 

Tony seemed to ponder that for a moment.

 

"It is really only nine?"

 

Steve sighed.

 

"Yes, Tony. I've been trying to tell you for twenty minutes."

 

The billionaire turned back around to stare at the blond.

 

"Is that what you were saying?"

 

Steve frowned.

 

"What did you think I was talking about?"

 

Tony shrugged, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

 

"The musical? Nine?"

 

Steve was about to protest but Tony whirled back around, stabbing at Coulson with a stubborn finger.

 

"You, my friend, are coming with us."

 

Coulson's eyes widened, but Clint interjected before he could.

 

"Stark! You can't force him."

 

Coulson turned to stare at Clint, and Tony shrugged.

 

"No, I can't, but Steve _is_ going to force you to go see Old Oliver, and everyone knows you can't inflict _that_ on your fiancé. So you let me and Thor take care of your man, tell the tales from your tender youth, and you go see the crazy old man."

 

Clint wanted to protest some more, but Coulson talked first, finding his voice again.

 

"The nuns painted me a fairly good portrait yesterday."

 

Tony rolled his eyes and waved a dismissive hand.

 

"The nuns don't know the _real_ good stories."

 

Natasha raised and took Clint's plate.

 

"Go get dressed, both of you."

 

Clint looked up and whined.

 

"Tashaaa!"

 

She shook her head,

 

"It's a good idea. Oliver is missing you, and Phil will go crazy if he continues spending all his time with you. Who knows, after a day with the rich kids, he may even be glad to see you."

 

Clint glared at her even as he got to his feet.

 

"Go to hell."

 

Coulson and him went back to their room. At the moment the door was closed, the older man turned toward Clint.

 

"Tony, is he Tony Stark?"

 

Clint turned incredulous eyes at him.

 

"Of course! You didn't notice before?"

 

Coulson glared half-heartedly at him.

 

"You didn't tell me."

 

Clint rolled his eyes.

 

"His face has been on the cover of magazines and newspaper for over fifteen years. How could you not recognize him?"

 

Coulson shrugged.

 

"I wasn't expecting him to..."

 

The older man trailed off, obviously uncomfortable with the discussion. Clint smiled wryly.

 

"Hang out with losers like me?"

 

Coulson frowned at the term, but Clint didn't leave him any time to protest.

 

"When he was a teenager, Tony went through a rough phase, you know, the 'I hate my parents' phase. Well his was worse because his father was a complete asshole. So he decided to come and hang out with the orphans, the poor, the scum of the Earth. He never stopped. When Thor arrived, his father bonded with Tony's and Stark brought him to meet us."

 

Coulson was silent. Clint nodded and left the room, going to stand beside Steve. A few seconds later his boss came down too. Tony clapped happily, whisking the older man away.

 

Steve, Natasha and Clint piled themselves in Steve's old car, stopping by Bruce's place to get the man, and then they were off to the edge of town. Old Oliver's house was an old family heirloom, reasonably sized, however big for the time it had been built in.

 

The Queen had been the 'royalty' in town before the Starks came around. Now only Oliver remained.

 

The old man greeted them at the door, punching Clint on the shoulder with all the enthusiasm he could muster.

 

"There you are, m'boy. Come on, I need strong arms to help me fix my fence! The little bugger won't open!"

 

Clint threw his head back and laughed.

 

"I should have known I was being kidnapped for slavery!"

 

Oliver grunted.

 

"Don't complain, I wanted your young man to come too, but Stevie boy said he was a paper-pusher. Good for nothing those ones."

 

Clint frowned at him.

 

"He's not! He's just not really manual."

 

Oliver grunted again.

 

"If you say so, kiddo. Come on now, fix the fence and I let you shoot at things."

 

Clint chuckled, the others following him silently, leaving him reconnect with his old mentor.

 

"I still shoot at things, old man. I go at an archery club."

 

Oliver shook his head, spitting on the ground.

 

"Clubs are for sissies."

 

Clint rolled his eyes with a fond smile.

 

"Yeah, yeah Oli."

 

For a few hours, they worked on the land. After the fence they cut some wood, they cleaned the pool, cut the grass and worked on the flower beds. Oliver followed them around, rambling about one thing or the other, retelling stories they already heard a thousand times.

 

They snacked in the backyard, sandwiches and ice tea. Oli went back inside to make a few calls, and Clint fell back to lie in the grass, stretching and basking in the sun like an oversized cat.

 

Right until someone hit him on the belly. He jumped to his feet, Oliver laughing him.

 

"Come on punk, let's go shoot."

 

Clint didn't even bother to argue, following the old man. They went to the empty field behind the house where their ancient targets still stood, cribbed by years of arrow holes.

 

Oliver handed him his old bow, still in perfect condition. Clint knew that if Oliver came to the point where he only had the energy to feed himself or to take care of the bow, he would choose the weapon.

 

Clint ran his hands over it. No new weapon could ever equal the intricate craftsmanship of it, and he had missed it. Carefully, he took out on arrow and nocked, feeling the strain of the bow in his arm, breathing in before opening his fingers.

 

The arrow flew straight and embedded itself in the middle of the target. He smiled to himself and slowly brought up the next arrow.

 

He wasn't sure how many quivers he emptied. As soon as he was done, Oliver collected everything, and brought it back.

 

He only knew that at some point when he released an arrow and reached for another one, his hand closed around empty air. He surfaced from his marksman mindset to realise the sun was setting.

 

The arm holding his bow slowly lowered, Clint breathing deeper than he had in months, smiling happily. Oliver smiled back. For a moment, everything was silent.

 

"I told you it was worth it."

 

Clint's eyes fluttered closed. Trust Tony Stark to break the moment. When the archer finally turned around, Coulson was staring at him. Even him, in the half light of dusk couldn't decipher his exact expression.

 

Clint smiled awkwardly. Coulson answered. Clint felt his heart swell.

 

Tony interrupted, as usual.

 

"All right kids, let's go home."

 

Clint sighed and turned to the old man.

 

"Wanna come, Oli?"

 

The old man smiled at him fondly and shook his head.

 

"No. Run away, you crazy kids."

 

Clint nodded and stuffed his hands in his pockets.

 

"See you old man."

 

They were all walking away when Oli called back.

 

"Hey punk!"

 

They all stopped and Clint looked at Coulson, muttering "He is talking to you". The man turned. Oliver nodded at him.

 

"Take care of Clint for me, will you?"

 

Coulson nodded jerkily, and Oli turned to limp toward his house.

 

OOOOOO

 

That night, Coulson looked at Clint.

 

"I didn't know you shoot."

 

Clint heard the question hidden behind the statement. He smiled at the ceiling from where he lying on the floor.

 

"I was nine, I think. My parents died when I was six, and I was alone. None of the others were at the orphanage yet, and my brother had already decided I wasn't good enough for him. I was angry and everything, so I ran away. I ran until I got to Old Oli's house. I hid under his porch. When he found me, he just looked at me for a long moment, the he said "You look like you could use shouting at cans, punk"."

 

Clint paused, but Coulson was listening intently.

 

"I went to his place at least once a week right until I moved to New York. He's great. Helps me put things into perspective."

 

Coulson cleared his throat.

 

"You looked... Peaceful. Earlier."

 

Clint nodded, even though Coulson couldn't see him.

 

"Yeah. Archery. It helps."

 

"Do you shoot in New York?"

 

Clint swallowed.

 

"Yeah. There's a cool club near my place."

 

There was a long silence, and Coulson talked again.

 

"Your brother?"

 

Clint snapped before he could stop himself.

 

"Not relevant."

 

Coulson's silence sounded shocked. Clint swallowed his anger, rasping through a constricted throat.

 

"He went to jail ten years ago. I have no clue what happened after."

 

Coulson paused then murmured.

 

"I'm sorry."

 

Clint shook his head.

 

"Don't be. He was an asshole."

 

Coulson sighed.

 

"He was your brother."

 

Clint huffed.

 

"No. Steve's my brother. Bruce, Thor, hell even Tony. They are my brothers. Natasha's my sister. Barney, he was only a jackass."

 

"You're lucky you found them."

 

Clint smiled.

 

"I know."

 

"Good night C-Barton."

 

Clint turned on his side.

 

"Good night, boss."

 

OOOOOOOO

 

The following morning went pretty much as all the others did, except that Natasha decided to sleep in. She had to get up at dawn every day for her job --

she was a cop-- and she always had trouble readjust to being able to stay at home.

 

Clint decided she deserved some bribery for not sharing her doubts with the rest of the gang. The archer didn't know how he would be able to shake off Tony if the genius suspected Phil was using him.

 

He was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to. The dark haired man was a blood hound when he realised something was off. Clint knew he didn't help the matters by admitting during a previous drunken ramble that he was in love with the man.

 

The blond was simply glad no one told Coulson about it. Admittedly, the man was supposed to know, they were getting married.

 

The point was, Clint was grilling bacon, eggs and some sausage he found lying in the fridge. Coulson was half watching him, half reading the newspaper.

 

It was around ten when Natasha came down, refreshed and relaxed. She even smiled at the both of them, pecking Clint sweetly on the cheek. To the younger man's surprise, Coulson grumbled good naturedly.

 

"Please keep your hands off my fiancé."

 

Natasha laughed musically and stole a piece of bacon. Clint tried to slap her hand away with a wooden spoon he kept for that sole purpose.

 

Of course, she dodged it easily, but Clint liked to be able to say he went down fighting. She went to sit beside Coulson, reading over his shoulder.

 

For a moment, Clint looked at them and realised this is what his dream life would look like.

 

He shook himself as he started plating everything.

 

OOOOOOO

 

 They had nothing planned for the day; everybody else was back to their usual day job. Natasha curled up in her armchair with her knitting needles, a hobby Clint sworn he was never going to reveal to anyone. The redhead found it relaxing, but was worried it would diminished her "badass factor".

 

Now that Coulson was bound in secrecy too, she indulged. Clint handed the TV remote to the older man. He knew his 'fiancé' liked trash reality TV when he had time for it, and he himself never really got hooked on the silver screen.

 

Coulson settle on a decoration program which involved a lot of tears, fake-involved 'I'm too cool for school' designers and screaming. Clint didn't really see the appeal, but hey.

 

He had been told he was weird, so he wasn't sure he could be trusted.

 

For a moment he wondered what to do with himself, than he shrugged. He grabbed his favorite book and went to lying on the same couch as Coulson, dropping his head in the older man's lap. His boss didn't even twitch, simply dropping a hand to rest on top of Clint's hair.

 

The younger man opened the book on a random page, loosing himself in the familiar troubles of the characters. After twenty minutes, when the programme was over, Coulson scratched Clint's scalp and asked softly.

 

"What are you reading?"

 

Clint shot him a look and turned the book around. Coulson arched and eyebrow at it.

 

"Les Miserables?"

 

Clint knew it was kind of surprising, at the job he always leaned more toward polar, suspense and thrillers. He definitely wasn't inclined toward romances or dramas. He simply shrugged though.

 

"It's nice to know someone had it harder than me."

 

Coulson cocked his head like he conceded the point.

 

"True, but I would have expected Oliver Twist, not Victor Hugo."

 

Clint smiled up at him.

 

"Mother Clara's ancestors were French, and she doesn't speak it, but she didn't want to lose her roots, so she had this huge collection of French classics. When she as tired of me running into trouble she'd throw one at me and hoped for it to distract me. This is the first one who did."

 

Coulson hummed under his breath.

 

"So that's why you want to write?"

 

Clint nodded, caressing the book's pages.

 

"Yeah. I'm not nearly as good, but books were the first good thing that happened to me."

 

Coulson stared at him and whispered softly.

 

"You could let me read it."

 

Clint shook his head vehemently.

 

"No. It would permanently distort your idea of me."

 

Coulson shot him a look Clint wasn't sure how to interpret but relented and looked back at the TV. The younger man went back to his book.

 

At some point during the morning Clint fell asleep, the novel slipping from his hands, hitting the floor with a muted thud. His mind registered it from afar, but didn't wake up and Clint was gone.

 

When he woke up, not even really sure he had been asleep in the first place, the young man only noted that he felt better than he had in years. He was warm to the bone, a quilt draped over him and tucked under his chin. He was laying on the couch he specifically bought because it was clearly made of cotton candies and rainbow and his head was pillowed against something warm and soft and just firm enough, and there was a hand carding through his hair...

 

He was pretty slow when he woke up, especially when he had been napping in the middle of the day.

 

When he did realize there was a _hand carding through his hair,_ a hand that was definitely not supposed to be there, that didn't belong there, his eyes snapped open.

 

He realized two things.

 

First he fell asleep in Coulson's lap. Second, it had been Coulson petting him.

 

He turned to stare at the man, already rambling, straightening himself.

 

"I'm sorry sir, I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have done that, it was inappropriate, you should have pushed me off-"

 

Coulson interrupted him with a careful hand on his shoulder.

 

"It's okay. It's fine. You were only sleeping. You looked like you could use it. Why should I have pushed you off?"

 

Clint pursed his lips.

 

"I was intruding sir, it wasn't right."

 

Coulson narrowed his eyes at him.

 

"You laid down on my lap in the first place."

 

Clint shrugged.

 

"It's not the same thing."

 

Coulson cocked his head.

 

"I suppose not. It's not a reason to push you off. That would have been rude."

 

Clint stared at him, confused.

 

"No. You simply would have told me it wasn't fine. It's not like--"

 

Clint stopped himself and shook his head. He had been about to say 'it's not like you would hit me too' because that wasn't a part of himself he wanted Coulson to see, not now, not ever. He got to his feet.

 

"I'm going for a run."

 

He left Coulson alone in the living room.

 

OOOOOO

 

What time their friends couldn't spend with them during the day they decided to make up for at night, and Tony whisked up a party at his place. It was only the few off them, with boyfriends and girlfriends and extended friends.

 

Thor brought only Jane, since Darcy was in New York, Tony came with Pepper, Rhodey and Happy. Steve managed to drag Sam and Bucky, and since Natasha and Bruce came alone they stated they escorted each other.

 

For the first time Clint had someone with him in these gatherings, and he was worried as to how Coulson would react to the drunken craziness that spawn when they were left alone with the quantity of alcohol Tony harbored.

 

His apprehensions were proved unfounded when Phil readily accepted the vodka shot Tony handed him, before taking a beer to nurse for a while.

 

Clint had already elected not to drink, not wanting to do something stupid like make a move on Coulson, and it meant he had to try and drown his sorrows in lemonade when the other man became engrossed in an apparently captivating conversation with Steve, because of course it was Steve.

 

The man in the room Clint was the least like, the only one he had no chance to compete against. The younger man distracted himself by slipping himself into Natasha's conversation with Pepper.

 

Clint always liked Pepper. She came later than most of them, a PA when Stark bowed to his board of directors and accepted that maybe he needed someone to keep him on track.

 

Miss Potts had been a blessing, and angel of patience that managed to down Tony a bit, just enough for the commoners to follow him in the slightest way. Everyone thought she would get together with her employer at some point, but she was happily married to Happy now.

 

They made a pretty good couple, if Clint said so himself.

 

At some point Coulson appeared at Clint's elbow, silent, staring at Pepper like a quiet and slightly wobbly and probably more than tipsy hawk.

 

It took him a few minutes to relax, leaning a bit on Clint's side, still saying nothing. He stayed there for the rest of the evening, moving with the younger man as he got reacquainted with everyone he hadn't seen in a too long time.

 

He talked about football with Sam, about New York with Rhodey, Darcy with Jane and cars with Happy.

 

All the while Coulson observed him, reminding Clint he wasn't here to make friends, but to learn as much as he could about him.

 

When they left Clint had to guide Coulson to the car, half holding him. The older man slurred a bit.

 

"I think I'm drunk."

 

Clint smiled tightly as he settled behind the wheel.

 

"Pretty sure you are, sir."

 

Coulson rolled his head to stare at him.

 

"It's Phil."

 

Clint frowned at him.

 

"What?"

 

"My name's Phil. We said you'd call me Phil."

 

Clint clenched his jaw.

 

"Only in public, sir."

 

Coulson frowned and whipped around, almost falling on Clint, to look in the backseat.

 

"Where's 'Tasha."

 

Clint laughed at him.

 

"She's spending the night at Bruce's."

 

Coulson nodded, appeased, and settled again. The drive home was silent after that, except for the rapid pace the older man was drumming on his thigh.

 

When they got there, Clint went to gather his things from their room. Coulson frowned at him.

 

"Wha're you doing?"

 

Clint smiled drily at him.

 

"Tasha's not here, I'm squatting her bed."

 

Coulson's eyes widened and he paled, suddenly flinging himself at Clint. Before the younger man even realized he'd moved, he got himself an armful of his boss who locked his lips with his, shoving his tongue in the archer's mouth.

 

Clint was a horrible man because the first thing he did was wrap his arms around Coulson's waist. He squeezed the man tightly against him, his tongue dancing with his boss', each of them moaning in each other's mouth.

 

Clint was already hard, unbelievably so, harder than he'd been in years, since his teens. His mind couldn't wrap itself around the fact that Coulson was kissing him. Finally.

 

He felt amazing. He was strong and powerful, but went pliantly wherever Clint wanted him, groaning in his employee's mouth, whining when they were forced to part to breath shallowly.

 

Coulson murmured, panting, against Clint's mouth, pleading.

 

"Don't go, please don't go, I hate being alone. Please."

 

The words were worse than a cold shower, the tone they were said in even worse. It threw everything that was wrong back into Clint's face. Coulson was completely boozed, clearly not in control of himself.

 

Clint couldn't even be sure the older man knew it was him he just made out with. He could think it was Steve. And it wasn't even about Clint. It was about not being alone.

 

He pushed Coulson gently away. The man opened wide panicked eyes and scrambled for purchase on his arms.

 

"No, don't please--"

 

Clint simply shook his head.

 

"It's not a good idea."

 

Coulson tried to drag him to the bed.

 

"Don't leave me alone"

 

Clint stared at the man.

 

"Sir..."

 

Coulson stared back.

 

"Please..."

 

Clint finally relented.

 

"Only to sleep."

 

Coulson opened his mouth to protest but Clint cut him before he talked, making his voice stern so that it would waver.

 

"Only to sleep."

 

Coulson finally relented and slipped dutifully on the left side, in his side facing the wall, leaving plenty space for Clint to lie in.

 

A few minutes later, Clint heard Coulson's soft snores, and he was left alone to stare at the door, the ghost of the man he loved's lips on his and silent tears trickling down his cheeks.

 

OOOOOO

 

When Clint woke up, he was alone in the room. The spot next to him was cold, meaning Coulson had been up for a while.

 

Or he woke up in the middle of the night, realized he was sleeping with Clint and was so disgusted he went to sleep on the couch.

 

The archer shook the painful feeling curling in his gut, rolling out of the bed. He carded his fingers through his hair. He was grateful for the lack of hangover, but he wasn't sure he wouldn't prefer to be miserable but to have forgotten the night before.

 

With some luck Coulson would have forgotten it, though. Clint would thank all the gods he didn't believe in if the older man didn't remember the scum of the Earth Clint was, how he took advantage of him.

 

And Clint did, no matter how Coulson kissed him first. He had been inebriated whilst Clint was sober.

 

When he got down the stairs, Coulson was already there, speaking quietly with Natasha, who must have come back from Bruce's place after the man went to work.

 

The redhead seemed happier than she had been in a while, whispering to Coulson over a cup of tea. The older man seemed a bit uncomfortable, but the woman was probably interrogating him over what happened last night.

 

When he got down the stairs they stopped talking, turning to look at him. Clint graced them with the brightest grin he could muster while staring at Coulson, trying to assess how much his boss hated him now.

 

The older man simply stared back with so many conflicted feelings in his eyes Clint couldn't ever hope to catch them all. He decided to act like everything was normal, going to the toast to grill his breakfast.

 

He looked at Coulson with a smirk.

 

"How's the head?"

 

Coulson held up the coffee he was nursing.

 

"Getting better."

 

Clint turned to lean on the counter.

 

"Natasha offered you ibuprofen I hope?"

 

The woman rolled her eyes and scoffed at him, and Coulson nodded.

 

"Done and taken. I'm fine."

 

Clint nodded. He ate in silence while Coulson drank two more cups and Natasha chastised him on how unhealthy that was. Coulson stared at her, taking another sip defiantly. She rolled her eyes again.

 

"City people."

 

After breakfast Natasha turned and asked Clint to help her with a gutter that wouldn't last another winter, according to her. The archer turned to look at Coulson.

 

"You can stay in and watch TV if you want. There're books in the study, so if--"

 

Coulson interrupted him with a tight smile.

 

"I'm fine. Go."

 

Clint felt a punch in his gut. Of course, Coulson and he weren't really getting married; he had no right to fret.

 

Coulson probably wanted nothing to do with him at the moment anyway.

 

Some of his turmoil must have shown on his face because Coulson's expression turned apologetic, but Clint nodded and turned around before the older man could add anything.

 

For a few hours, he and Nat worked in the garden, fixing the gutter, cleaning the table and the chairs, repainting the patio a bit. By the time they were down, Clint was in a much better mood, was pretty sure his nose was getting sun burned and wanted nothing but a good long shower.

 

When he got in, he was surprised when he noticed Coulson wasn't in the living room. A quick inspection taught him he wasn't in his room, Natasha's, or any of the bathrooms. Clint frowned and went back outside to frown at Tasha who was sunbathing.

 

"Did anyone tell you they'd come to get C--Phil?"

 

She twisted to look at him.

 

"No? He's not in?"

 

Clint shook his head, getting worried. She shrugged.

 

"He probably went to take a walk."

 

Clint nodded and chastised himself for worrying over nothing. It's not like Coulson would get kidnapped.

 

He decided to go take his shower anyway. When he got out, scrubbing his hair with a towel, he noticed a sheet of paper on his desk.

 

Thinking it was probably a note from Coulson explaining where he went, he picked it up.

 

_Clint,_

_First and foremost, I would like to apologize for everything. I have been a horrible man to you, and while it had been mostly involuntary, I feel terrible and offer you my excuses._

_I am sorry for forcing me to do this, to lie to your friends and family. I'm sorry to have forced you to open a part of you to me I had no rights to. And I am sorry to leave you behind to explain everything._

_I can't do this, Clint. I can't bind you to me, for nothing than my own needs. I am an old bitter man, and I would bring you down with me. I can't do that, Clint. I can't dim your light._

_You are beautiful, you are brilliant, you are funny and I can't believe I have become so cynical and blasé that I haven't seen it before. I would ruin it Clint, I would waste you._

_Natasha told me this morning, about you, about how you feel about me. How I ever got you to love me, to care for me enough to accept to marry me, while knowing I didn't care about you, I cannot begin to understand._

_Please forgive me. I know you will probably never believe me, but I think I'm falling in love with you. And this is all so wrong._

_I need to tell you I didn't want an assistant. I've never did, I prefer to work on my things by myself. But Nick always throws them at me. The guy before you wanted to take my place, and when he discovered I'm gay, he tried to get all my clients to leave me because of it._

_It did not work, and he was fired, but it did not leave me in a mood to appreciate assistants. Every one of them I had in the past was more interested in their own advancement than in their job._

_I took for granted you would be the same, cunning, too ambitious and ridiculously attractive, taking the entire world for granted. Despite your unwavering loyalty and dedication to our company and to me thorough the last three years, I have been too daft to ever let you prove me your worth._

_No, I said that wrong. I never let myself see your worth. You have nothing to prove to me._

_Even worse, I thought you would be grateful about the possible advantages it would offer you._

_I recommended you to Nick as my replacement when I'll go. You'll do a great job, you know the work as well as I._

_The last thing I wanted to tell you about is your book. Steve told me it was yours. I found it amazing. I'm not saying this to be nice. You can ask Maria, I gave it to her as soon as I was done reading it, and she loved it as well._

_I thought it was something that caught your eye, and expected you to defend it like every publisher would have to. When you failed to do so, I am ashamed to say I saw it as a weakness of character rather than for what it truly meant._

_I apologize for last night, for putting you in that position. I have always been unable to control myself under the influence of alcohol, and I shouldn't have drunk, knowing my growing affection toward you. Leaving the bed this morning, when I wanted nothing more than to roll over and drape  myself over you taxed me more than I ever thought possible._

_I am sorry Clint. I am more ashamed than I ever been in my life, for what I have done to you, to Natasha and to everyone of your friend. I am wracking myself with guilt, and this morning I wanted nothing more than to get to my knees and beg your forgiveness._

_I didn't because you deserve better,_

_I left because you deserved better._

_Please don't wait for me when I'm gone. You deserve better, Clint. You deserve someone young that will cherish you._

_Good bye,_

_Phil Coulson_

 

 

Clint fell on the bed, staring at the letter, tears trickling down his cheeks again, face twisting, trying to breathe.

 

He sobbed, crumpling the paper where he held it.

 

He read it over and over again, read the apologies he couldn't accept, the declaration that had to be a lie, the good bye that tore his heart apart. He felt on the brink of death because you can't survive with a heart that crushed.

 

Why did Coulson felt the need to sweep everything he wanted just under his nose, to tell him he was that close to getting them, only to take them away? Surely if he really was getting close to even remotely like Clint, he wouldn't have done so.

 

He cried and he sobbed, and made noise that reminded of a wounded beast and fifteen minutes later Natasha slammed the door open, eyes impossibly wide. She stuttered.

 

"Wh-what's wrong."

 

Clint tried to bellow at her, wanted to, but the only thing that would come out was a pained whimper.

 

"You couldn't leave it well enough alone. You just had to get involved."

 

She frowned and snatched the sheets of paper from his hands, eyes growing horrified as she read. She whispered.

 

"Clint..."

 

He shook his head.

 

"It's over."

 

She pinched her lips.

 

"No, it's not. He's going away because he thinks it's the best for you. He cares about you."

 

Clint shook his head violently.

 

"No he doesn't. He only wrote it to make me feel better."

 

She slapped him upside the head.

 

"You haven't seen how he looked at you since you came here."

 

Clint glared at her.

 

"You don't fall in love with someone in four days."

 

She glared right back.

 

"No, but you can be falling in love with them. Clearly he was been attracted to you before. And now he saw who you really are."

 

Clint wiped his tears angrily away.

 

"What can I do, anyway? It's over."

 

Natasha grabbed his jaw and turned his face toward her.

 

"Now you are going to get your ass back to New York and get your man."

 

Clint tried to protest, but her sharp fingers dug into his cheek.

 

"It's not up to discussion."

 

He shook his head.

 

"He doesn't want me to-"

 

She leaned forward.

 

"Go. To. New. York."

 

He got to his feet.

 

"What about the others-"

 

She slashed her fore finger to point the door.

 

"I'll explain to them. GO!"

 

And Clint did, barely taking the time to shrug a shirt and some pants on.

 

OOOOOOO

 

Clint barely made it to the airport in time for the plane to New York. Thankfully he didn't bring any luggage--he would have to get Natasha to send them over-- and he reached the boarding deck just as they called for the passengers.

 

He tried to call Coulson, but the man either had blocked him or closed his phone because each of them fell to the voice mail. He braced himself for the wait. The only thing keeping him from having the jitters and pacing up and down the aisle was the knowledge the older man didn't have any faster way to get back to New York than this either.

 

The moment the doors opened, Clint sprung out, slipping past a business man gesturing wildly while talking on the phone to get in the first cab. He probably got cursed down to his third generation, but at the moment couldn't bring himself to care, throwing the address of the publishing house to the taxi driver. He was sure Coulson would go there first, to pack before going back home.

 

When he got to the familiar building he took off running. When he saw the line of people waiting for the elevator, he changed his trajectory and took the stairs, climbing them two by two until he reached the sixth.

 

He pushed the door open, ignoring all the stares he got for sprinting in between cubicles, focused of the door of his and Coulson's office. Just as he was getting to it, the door opened and Coulson came out, a full box in his hands.

 

He froze where he stood when he saw Clint, and the younger man slowed down until stopping right in front of his boss, panting. Coulson looked like he wanted to say so many things, but settled, against his will if his expression was to be believed, on this.

 

"Why are you out of breath?"

 

Clint gave him his best winning grin.

 

"I ran."

 

Coulson still stared at him.

 

"From Iowa?"

 

Clint smirked ruefully, and shook himself, because that wasn't why he came all the way back here.

 

"I can't let you do that, sir."

 

Coulson frowned at him, eyes racking up and down like he couldn't quite believe Clint was really here, but was determined to enjoy it as much as he could. When the younger man stepped forward to take the box away, his fingers were lax and let go easily,

 

Clint out it slowly on the floor, and took a step forward until he was almost nose to nose with Coulson. The older man swallowed and whispered.

 

"What are you doing here?"

 

Clint smiled softly at him.

 

"Stopping the man of my life from running away to Canada, sir."

 

With that he leaned forward and kissed Coulson, his hands settling lightly on the man's waist. For a moment the older man tensed, and Clint had a fraction of a second to regret the entirety of his life, before going fully pliant, melting against the younger man's chest, grabbing onto his biceps and holding for his dear life.

 

For a moment nothing but them existed. Clint sighed and deepened the kiss, letting his tongue caress Coulson's, the older man moaning in answer.

 

Clint marveled at how much a better kisser Coulson was when he was sober. Then he acknowledged that his boss could have kissed like a Golden Retriever and he wouldn't have cared.

 

It was perfect, and Clint pulled apart after a few seconds, still panting but infinitely happier about it.

 

"I'd really like to date you, sir, so would you marry me?"

 

Coulson stared at him for a beat or two before tackling him, nearly toppling them over with the strength of the kiss. Clint smiled and laughed into it, probably bruising the older man with his death grip on his waist.

 

Then the catcalls started. Coulson groaned for an entirely different reason, hiding his face by tucking it into Clint neck. The younger man patted the man firmly on the back, smirking at everyone else.

 

Then he turned to whisper in Coulson's ear.

 

"How about we get out of here, sir?"

 

Coulson answered quickly.

 

"Phil. Please."

 

Clint beamed at him, even though he couldn’t see it,

 

"How about we get out of here, Phil?"

 

The older man sighed.

 

"Might be the best idea you've ever had."

 

Clint simply laughed. They got back to the streets, waiting for a cab. The archer turned toward the other man.

 

"We're going to Immigration?"

 

Coulson--Phil--shook his head and flagged a taxi that went by.

 

"It's closed by now."

 

Clint nodded before leering at Phil.

 

"Your place or mine?"

 

The older man opened wide eyes at him just as the cab stopped beside them. Clint smiled crookedly at him.

 

"I'd think spending five days at my childhood house counts for at least three dates."

 

Phil seemed to have an intense intern argument before relenting and nodding at Clint, eyes crinkling with the strength of his smile.

 

They both got in the cab and Coulson gave his address. The younger man arched an eyebrow at him. Phil shrugged.

 

"If we're going to get married, you should see where I live, right?"

 

Clint grinned at him and turned to stare out the window to memorize the way to the apartment.

 

When they got past the door, Phil grabbed Clint by his shirt and backed himself into the wall, encouraging Clint to press into him.

 

The younger man wasn't sure where this was going, but he happily went with the flow, caging his fiancé by setting his elbows on each side of his head, licking into his mouth, chasing and cataloguing every taste he could find.

 

After a moment Phil twisted his face to the side. Clint, not deterred, started tracing the line of the jaw, nibbling kissing and licking his way up and down the glorious neck exposed to him.

 

Phil gasped brokenly.

 

"Please, make me yours."

 

Clint froze and looked up, unsure he heard right. Phil saw the look and nodded frantically.

 

"Do whatever you want."

 

Clint straightened himself, crowding against Coulson, their nose bumping, their mouths a whisper away. Coulson murmured.

 

"Take me, however you want. Just make me yours."

 

Suddenly Clint wrenched apart, grabbing Coulson newlywed style, running toward the bedroom. The older man was about the same height as him, and definitely had some muscled on, but the younger man would be damned if he wasn't enduring enough to cross ten meters.

 

He kicked the door to the bedroom open, not caring if it was the master one or the spare, throwing Coulson on the bed, crawling over him before he could settle properly.

 

The older man's pupils were completely blown, and his dick was pressing in what must be a painful manner against his pants.

 

Clint ignored it for the moment, taking to fuck Coulson's mouth with his tongue as he slipped a hand under the man's shirt.

 

Perfectly aware he'd never be able to undo the buttons, he tore the two sides apart, sending little plastic pieces all over the room. He attacked Coulson's nipples, finally fiddling with Coulson's pants.

 

The older man was completely unhelpful, gasping and writhing and absolutely gone, lost to everything but his lover's mouth. He moaned Clint's name over and over again, and the younger man was so hard he wanted to cry.

 

He shoved Coulson's pant down his thighs, not able to get them off completely, and not really caring about it as he sucked hungrily on the older man's cock. It wasn't especially big nor thick, but it was firm and straight. Clint had never been a size queen, and he showed his approval at Coulson's penis by deep throating it.

 

It had been a long time since he last practiced, and he gagged a bit before being able to nose at Coulson's pubic hair. The man whimpered, his head thrashing from side to side.

 

"Clint, please, Clint, oh my god, Clint-"

 

The younger man let go of Coulson's cock with a satisfied pop, cocking an eyebrow at him considering. Then he smirked and pushed the older man to turn around on his belly. Coulson went easily, sighing. Clint tugged at his lover’s thigh until the ass was beautifully in the air.

 

The younger man smiled and prodded his lover's puckered hole with his tongue. Phil wailed, pressing suddenly into Clint's face. The younger man smiled even wider, eagerly tongue fucking Phil's anus.

 

After what felt like an eternity and a half, Clint decided to have pity on the man and reached between his legs to grasp his cock, tugging at it roughly in time with the thrust of his tongue. After less than ten strokes Phil was coming all over the bed, shouting himself hoarse.

 

Clint took his hand away just in time for it not to be pinned under the older man as he crashed down the bed, legs unable to support him any longer.

 

Clint took a moment to admire the expanse of his back before straddling the man's lovely ass, sitting on the shaking thighs.

 

Phil was still giving out little breathy whimpers.

 

The younger man smirked and started jerking himself off. His breathing was harsh and rough. Phil seemed to come back to himself, if only a little, reaching back with one hand to grasp Clint thigh, squeezing it. Clint groaned and it only took two more jerks before he came, grunting brokenly.

 

Coulson whimpered under him as Clint's come spattered in white stripes on his back.

 

Clint leaned forward, bracing himself with a hand in between Coulson's shoulders. For a long moment, he stared at the mess he made, before slowly reaching for it and pressing, rubbing it in Phil's skin.

 

The older man moaned and pressed back into it. Clint whispered, afraid to break the moment.

 

"Mine."

 

Phil nodded frantically.

 

"Yours."

 

OOOOOOO

 

Three years later

 

Natasha barged in the room, throwing the tie at Clint aggressively, glaring murderously at him.

 

"That was pathetic."

 

Clint shrugged, wrapping it around his neck.

 

"It was worth a try."

 

She crossed her arms under her chest.

 

"You aren't seeing him until the ceremony."

 

Clint sighed and focused on tying the just acquired tie.

 

"This is completely ridiculous."

 

Natasha sneered at him.

 

"You really want to curse your marriage for something so childish?"

 

Clint rolled his eyes at her.

 

"It's nothing but a superstition. And you do remember we have been married for three years now? And we definitely saw each other the day before the ceremony."

 

Natasha sighed and helped him with his knot.

 

"Yes, because you are two anxious imbeciles, and if we hadn't let you sleep together you would have panicked all night over the possibility of cold feet."

 

She gripped his chin, forcing him to look at her in the eyes.

 

"Now you are both mature and secure in your relationship. Why not do it the right way?"

 

Clint arched an eyebrow at her.

 

"Isn't it a bit too late for that?"

 

Natasha shrugged, letting him go and checking for nail marks.

 

"Better late than never."

 

Clint rolled his eyes again. Yes, forgetting his tie with Phil so that he would have to go back and get it was rather weak as far as plans went, but it was the only one he had. He didn't want to catch his first glance of his husband at the altar, because the older man was sure to look divine, and Clint would inevitably make a fool of himself in front of everybody.

 

Just as he was about to try once more to convince Natasha to let him slip into Phil's change room, the door to his slammed open.

 

Tony walked in, eyes stuck to his phone.

 

When Phil and Clint had decided their parties, they agreed on three persons each, including best man and woman. The younger man decided to have his fellow orphans. While Tony understood, in pure Stark style, he overcompensated his absence of responsibility by throwing money at Clint and watching over every step of the planning to make sure everything was going fine.

 

"Ok, Spook is ready and moving to the altar, so you, my dear friend, will have to move that pretty little ass of yours if you don't want to be late for your second wedding."

 

Did Clint mention Stark still hadn't forgiven Phil for the fake wedding thing? Because he hadn't.

 

Though the archer felt it was less genuine since the older man asked him to marry him for real.

 

The walk to the doors was lost in a haze. Clint was dimly aware of Tony slipping away with Thor to their seats, of Bruce, Steve and Natasha stepping and entering in front of him.

 

When he walked in, he felt like floating, like he was dreaming. His eyes zeroed in Phil, the man looking even more magnificent then Clint expected. He was glowing with happiness, his sweet little smile curling the corners of his mouth, eyes crinkling.

 

Mother Clara was officiating, and Clint would have liked to be able to say he listened to her, but to be honest he hadn't any mind for anything else but Phil.

 

When his lover stated "I do" with so much conviction it sounded like it came out of his very core, Clint beamed and answered in spades.

 

Everything would be fine.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by a gif set on tumblr.


End file.
